


The Tiger Who Came for a Pint

by thecountessolivia



Category: Danish Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Beer, Damage to hotel property, Face twitch origin story, Not so imaginary friends, Other, Sushi, Tigers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-02 16:24:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10222427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: "I’ve been dreaming about since I was a child that once in my life a giant tiger will be my best friend.”- Mads MikkelsenMads meets his tiger.





	1. Chapter 1

That was one hell of a conversation he was gonna have to have with Hanne. And with airport security. And with pretty much everyone else. 

But the tiger was blasé about it all. It stretched out on the hotel room carpet and flexed its massive claws into the threads.

"Leave it with me, mate," it said, letting out a leisurely yawn. "I'll sort it out. That's what best friends are for."

Mads believed it. 

\-----

The end of the press tour saw Mads dropped for two nights into London. The team had splashed out, and he was booked into Claridge's — a bit too fancy and uptight for him, but his room was big and comfy and the coffee was decent. The premiere afterparty would be decent. Getting drunk with Ben in a pub later on would be decent. Still, he was dead tired and heartsick for Copenhagen. Wife, kids, bike. Beers with Lars. Long overdue break from it all. Bliss. 

But for now he was sat downstairs in the hotel events room, prattling his way on autopilot through endless interviews. If he were honest, he'd rather have gone to chat with the adorable flock of flower-crowned Fannibals he'd seen huddling timidly on the street outside. With each journalist who came and went in a seemingly endless procession, Mads' mind drifted further away from his body until it was off somewhere fantasizing about a cigarette and a long nap.

The chipper blonde lady from The Times was the last in line for the chair opposite. Just in time: the bright lights were starting to give him a headache. Thankfully, she was soon winding down, asking the usual softball questions. " _Softball_ questions". Hugh had explained that one to him once. Mental note to text and catch up. 

"So, are you a dog person or a cat person?"

He set his smirk to medium-level charm. He'd heard that one plenty of times before. It was silly trivia, of course, but he loved answering it. He'd had to bullshit his way through so many hours of repetitive questions. This one had an answer that was true and fun. A little piece of his real self that the handlers and agents couldn't rewrite or tone down. 

"I'm a tiger person. I’ve been dreaming about since I was a child that once in my life a giant tiger will be my best friend.”

Well, that's it then. All done. He expected her to laugh, nod, thank him and be on her way. She did laugh — but carried on.  

"That's not an answer I've heard before. As I've got a couple of minutes left, could you share a bit more? Were you always fascinated with tigers? Or did you see one in a zoo when you were a child?"

He raised his eyebrows, suddenly thrown off script. He had to pause and reach back, way back, into his childhood.

"I never saw one in a zoo, no. And we don't have any wild tigers in Denmark, unfortunately. It's too cold." A giggle from the journalist. Done? No. She persisted.

"But it sounds like the animal made quite an impression on you, if it's something you still dream about."

It was his turn to chuckle. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and fidgeted a bit. 

"I used to read about tigers in books and watch them on television. And every year I would demand one for my birthday."

"And you were always disappointed."

"Well, yeah, but my dad would tell me that if I worked really hard and was a nice person, one day my tiger would show up. It looks like I'm still waiting!"

"That's a lovely story. Cheers for that, Mads Mikkelsen." 

"It's pronounced _Mas_ by the way. Like Thomas."

"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry."

"No problem, thank you." Awkward handshake and smile. "Okay. Thanks again. Bye."

There was a lot more he could have told her. In his boyhood daydreams the beast had had a name. It liked cake, stole his dad's beer and put his schoolyard foes in their place.

\-----

Back in his room, jetlag hit him like a ton of bricks. Thankfully he had a few hours to kill before the familiar chaos: fittings, stylists, photo ops, red carpet. He checked his phone while sneaking a cigarette by the open window. He wanted to hit the bed straight after, but then remembered the four pack of Stella he'd stuck in the fancy hotel fridge. When he first arrived, he found the room stocked with spirits and a few tiny bottles of something called "artisan bitter" (which made him grimace) so he trotted down to the nearest newsagents and bagged himself some plain old lager. 

But when he opened the fridge, he found it had returned to its immaculate 5-star self — no sign of his cheapo cans. He frowned. Did the hotel staff do a clearout? Was he more out of it than he thought? He looked around, even stupidly checked his travel bag. Maybe the bathroom? 

He was almost to the bathroom door, hand reaching for the handle, when from within came an enormous splash, as if an obese man had risen from a tub. 

Mads' arm fell to his side and he took two staggered steps back. Just as well: water came rushing from beneath the door, pooling at his feet. The sounds that followed from inside told of every object that wasn't fixed down being casually kicked, cracked, smashed or broken. 

And then came the rumbling. It rose from behind the door like low and distant thunder, louder and louder until there was no mistaking its nature: a growl.

A growl that formed into words. Danish words.  

"Hej Mads? Er det dig? Vil du have en øl?"

"Uh... what... what..." Mads was fighting back a rising sense of panic. He clutched  at the sideboard behind him, desperately fumbling for his phone, the hotel phone, anything. 

More splashing. More crashing, closer now. The growl shook rhythmically and its deep timbre sent the windows rattling.  

"Jeg kan tale engelsk også. Do you want a beer, mate?"

The bathroom door swung slowly open.

A can of Stella emerged into view, floating — or so it seemed. Mads' missing beer hung daintily suspended from five enormous claws, spawned from a striped orange paw. 


	2. Chapter 2

The door creaked wider inch by inch. Inside the bathroom, among the trampled wreckage of toiletries, towels and beer cans, sat one enormous, undeniable and very wet tiger. Two golden eyes blinked slowly at Mads.

The creature's raised right paw let drop the beer — it rolled forward and stopped at Mads' feet. The same paw then gave an unmistakable wave.

Mads gaped, frozen to the spot by awe and abject fear. He'd found his phone in his back pocket and was gripping it tightly behind him. At this precise moment, he was unsure whether to hurl it as a projectile in a last-ditch attempt at self-defense; or whether to ring his agent and inform him that he'd had a nervous breakdown and was being addressed by a bilingual feline predator.

As if on cue, the orange beast spoke again, once more in Danish.

"Are you gonna drink that? Gotta say, I'm still pretty thirsty."

With that, the tiger rose to its feet and took several strides forward. When it cleared the bathroom door, Mads came to his senses. He spun around and sprinted over the bed, diving behind it for cover. He landed in a crouch — the front door was almost within reach — and all he had to do was get up and make a dash for it.

He was staggering up to his feet when a massive shadow passed over his head, followed by an equally large thump that landed somewhere between him and his only escape route. He looked up and found himself inches away from a furry orange face.

"Fuck!"

Mads fell back against the bed and decided this, then, was really and truly it: he was seconds away from becoming a tiger snack.

The tiger's whiskers twitched. Its canines flashed, white and sharp. Mads pinched his eyes shut and waited, heart pounding, for his demise. The rhythmic growling rose up again, growing louder and louder and louder and then the tiger — the tiger was definitely laughing.

"Looooooooooser," said the tiger in an amused roar.

Mads pried one eye open. He stared up at the creature: it had sat down on its hind legs and was staring back, with what could only be described as an extremely self-satisfied expression. "W-what?" Mads choked, shunting himself further into a corner between the bed and the nightstand.

The tiger hiccuped twice and the air wafted with the smell of stale beer. "Were you trying to have a race just now? 'Cause I always win them. 'Cause I'm way faster, remember?"

"Oh god."

Of course Mads remembered: sprinting home for dinner through the streets of Nørrebro, ball stuck under his arm, always trying to outrun his imaginary... But that was all in his head. His tiny boy's head, full of exotic animals and kung fu fights and outlandish sporting triumphs.  
  
"You're... you're not real."

The tiger flopped over on its side and a flower vase that had already been shaken precariously close to a side table's edge came crashing down behind it. Mads winced.

The tiger grumbled, "Oh right, I'm not real. So who drank your beer, mate? Anyway, don't believe me? Pet my belly."

"I... what?"

The tiger rolled languidly onto its back, exposing its white underside, painted with a broken ladder of black stripes. "Go ahead. Pet it."

Mads' terror was gradually being replaced by awe and wonder. Something in his heart ached. The giant cat was the very picture of his childhood fantasies: strong, terrifying and utterly graceful. The tiger had spotted the beer can that had rolled across the carpet and was stretching out, trying to bat it closer. Mads came up on his knees and reached out a shaking hand, expecting to pass it through the empty void of a hallucination. Instead, his palm found and pressed into fur. It was warm, thick and soaked from the tiger's bathroom antics. It was also very real. Mads gasped, hesitated, then stroked more freely. The tiger wiggled and growled with contentment.

"Oh yep, yep, that's it. A bit to the left. Come on, do those scratchy-scratchies I like."

Mads felt his face crack into a grin. He unleashed a flurry of petting and rubbing. After a minute or two of delighted grunting from the outstretched tiger, he worked up the nerve to speak.

"No plans to eat me, then?"

"Eat you?" The tiger raised its head and squinted up at Mads. "Back in the day you told me not to eat people, so I don't eat people. That includes you." It had rolled the beer can to itself at last and was snapping a claw against the tab, trying to get it to open. "You did let me smack Arne the Asshole around a few times though, huh? Remember Arne, who smelled like cabbages? That was fun."

Mads grinned wider. Arne the school bully did stink of cabbages. And Mads did have to give him a few shoves in his day. But in his head Arne got it much worse from a certain giant feline.

The tiger rolled over on its belly. It had pierced the can and was now clasping it gently in its jaws. It tipped back its head and emptied the contents down its throat.

"And hey, what's that - _hic_ \- look I taught you? Remember the scary face? Like this: grrrr!" The tiger snarled and Mads snarled back without thinking. He laughed. He'd deployed a variant of the face in countless films.

"So, erm... how did you get here?"

"You called me, remember?"

"Called— did I?"

"You got to talking about me and then you thought of my name. You haven't done that in a long time. Thought you'd forgotten all about me, chum. I was getting bored. So I hope you don't mind, I had a little splashy-splash in your bathroom. Got a bit excited."

The tiger was right. Until the interviewer brought it up, Mads hadn't thought about the name of his feline friend for years. It had faded into distant memory.

There was a knock on the door.

"Aha!" The tiger got up on all fours. "That'll be our sushi. Come in!"

"Hang on, wait, what!" Mads leapt up and nearly tripped over the tiger's tail in his rush to save whoever was about to insert themselves into a tableau of wrecked hotel bathrooms and beer-drinking tigers.

Mads got to the door just in time to hold it back from opening much wider a crack.

"Uh, yes?"

The young porter boy greeted Mads with a slightly bewildered expression. The cart he'd been sent up with was loaded with the largest quantity of sushi Mads had ever seen.

"Your order, sir."

"Bring it in and plop it all on the bed," came a growling voice from behind Mads, spoken in slightly accented English.

The porter blinked and craned his neck, trying to sneak a peek past. Mads grabbed for the cart handle, smiled and said "thank you" in a vain hope of sending the lad on his way. Too late: the door slipped from Mads' white-knuckled grip and swung open. The tiger sat himself down beside Mads and leaned in to butt its head lightly against his hip. The porter went white with mortal terror. His eyes flicked between the orange beast, the smashed pieces of room decor and the deluge emerging from the bathroom. 

A low vibrating purr rose from the tiger's throat and the pupils of its golden eyes narrowed to thin black slivers. Its tail moved across the floor in a slow, pendular sweep. The porter's mouth went slack and he swayed, fixing on the feline stare. The tiger spoke, low and clear. 

"As you can see, young man, a burst water pipe has caused an accident in Mr. Mikkelsen's room."

"Burst water pipe. Yes," mumbled the dazed porter. 

"It's nothing urgent. You will tell your superiors it's under control."

"I will tell them."

"And please pass on our thanks for the complimentary meal."

"Compli... okay. I'll do that, sure."

The tiger gave a single, soft roar of approval. "Good. Mads? Got a tip for the kid?" 

\---

The unfortunate porter deposited the food and departed, clutching the ten pound note Mads had guiltily shoved in his hand.

Now Mads sat cross-legged on the bed, five silver trays of sashimi, maki and nigiri heaped between him and the tiger. The cat settled at the foot of the bed and was hoovering up the sushi with alarming speed and ungodly chomping noises, pausing to slurp up whole dollops of wasabi or to swat away piles of pickled ginger. Every few minutes, Mads pinched his left hand, trying to convince himself he'd not landed himself in a particularly vivid dream. 

"So. Tigers don't purr. Or order sushi."

The tiger flicked a maki roll into the air with a claw and caught it with a snap of its jaws.

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly a regular tiger, Mads. I'm _your_ tiger. That makes me better than almost any tiger. Even Lars' tiger."

"Hang on. Are you saying my brother's got a tiger too?"

The tiger almost certainly rolled its yellow eyes.

"Barely. Lars had to be special. So he got himself a _liger_. Would you believe that? Ridiculous thing. Too big. And he only got one 'cause it sounded good: _Lars and the Liger_."

Mads popped a slice of salmon sashimi in its mouth and grinned.

"So Lars' liger is bigger than you, huh? Faster, too?"

The tiger's teeth flashed, plastered with fish roe and pieces of chewed up nori. It growled. 

"Oh, is that how it is? You just get me back to Copenhagen and then we'll see how fast that yellow lard-ass can run."

Mads laughed. It was beginning to dawn on him that his very special tiger had no intention of returning to wherever it came back from. That meant dealing about a million unanswered questions and logistical challenges. But for now Mads couldn't wait to call his brother. He wanted to jolt his memory about the name of Lars' own imaginary friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it: my least-read fic, lol. Admittedly it is a bit niche.


End file.
